McNally's Dare

by Lawrence Sanders

  She followed him to the door where they spoke quietly. I saw Georgy pat his cheek before he left. Seeing my gaze, she said when she returned, “I asked him if he needed money.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me to buzz off.”

  “Good. You deserve it.” I consulted the little address book I always carry and picked up the kitchen wall phone. I dialed the MacNiff house and got Maria Sanchez. I held my breath. Mr. MacNiff was in. I asked him for Lance Talbot’s phone number, which I had neglected to get from Lance when he hired me. Georgy slipped me a pad and pencil as Nifty gave me the info. Knowing Nifty was curious but too polite to ask the reason for my request, I volunteered the information, saying, “He walked off with my bathing suit and I want it back.”

  Georgy had taken the bottle of Chardonnay into the parlor and I followed her, and it, there.

  “You think the von Brecht woman called Vivian and asked to meet with her?” she said.

  Taking my place next to her on the couch, I nodded as I poured us seconds, then I kissed her.

  “Before you get too comfortable, tell me what’s going on, Archy”

  “Where did I leave off last time I saw you?”

  “From the beginning, please.”

  I took a deep breath and told her what I had shared with Al Rogoff this morning, adding the masked man in the tunnel theory, which I passed off as my own clever deduction. And why not?

  She listened carefully and, like Al, said with what I had on Lance Talbot and the von Brechts, they could live a long and happy life in snowy Switzerland. “Even if von Brecht did call Vivian, all you know is that she called an old friend. That’s what she would claim, showing the police photos of their days at Smith.”

  I didn’t need Georgy girl to tell me that. What I was after was one more piece of circumstantial evidence to add to my collection, bolstering my resolve not to write off Lance Talbot & Co. and to enlist Al Rogoff in my cause.

  When the phone rang I ran to the kitchen and picked it up along with the pad and pencil Georgy had supplied. Gallo read me a list of five numbers. One of them corresponded to the first number on the pad—the number Malcolm MacNiff had given me. I told Joe to call the Palm Beach police and to sit tight.

  “Someone from the Talbot house called Vivian Emerson.” I showed Georgy the pad. “And she went to meet that person.”

  Staring at it, she said, “This doesn’t look good for Vivian.

  “No, Georgy, it doesn’t.” I sat next to her and took her hand. “And there ain’t tuppence we can do about it.”

  “Poor Joey,” Georgy lamented.

  “Poor Vivian Emerson,” I corrected.

  We sat in silence for what seemed like a long time. Me thinking about Vivian Emerson’s encounter with her schoolmate in Switzerland, and my girl thinking about—what? Joe Gallo?

  As it turned out our thoughts, like our hands, were intertwined. “You know,” Georgy broke the reverie, “you used the word conspiracy. If this Talbot and Holga were in plain sight at the time of the murder, why couldn’t Holga’s husband have been in the tunnel?”

  “Because he was in Switzerland,” I told her.

  “But you said he was at the pool party yesterday.”

  “He was. He flew in yesterday. Lance and Holga picked him up at the airport that morning and brought him to the party.”

  “Were you there?” she asked.

  “At the party? Of course. I just told you all about it.”

  “No, silly. Were you at the airport? Did you see the guy get off the plane?”

  I squeezed her pretty paw. First Izzy Duhane, and now Georgy girl, telling me my business. Maybe God created women for reasons other than the obvious.

  “I’ll ask Al Rogoff if he can check the incoming flights that day and their passenger rosters.”

  “You’re welcome,” she heckled. “Now I want to get out of this uniform and into a shower. How about taking me out to dinner, McNally, and calling Joey to join us.”

  “What?”

  “Come on,” Georgy pushed. “He’s alone and worried, thanks to you.”

  Now I’m to blame. “I’ll think about it,” I said, more as a matter of form than fact. Little Joey would dine with us.

  Putting my address book back into my pocket, I discovered the photo I had shown Al. I took it out and looked at it as if it contained the answer to all my questions. Funny thing was—it did.

  “What’s that?” Georgy asked.

  “The prince and the pauper,” I said, handing her the photo. “That’s Lance Talbot on your right.”

  “He’s a southpaw,” was her only comment.

  “A who?”

  “A southpaw,” she repeated. “The kid’s glove is on his right hand, so he’s a lefty.”

  I took the photo back and studied it. The Lance Talbot I played tennis with was not a southpaw.

  TWENTY-THREE

  GENS DU MONDE, AS the French call them. The fashionable people. Chauffeured limousines deposited them at Lady Cynthia Horowitz’s front door before driving off to the mammoth parking area on her ten acres of surf and sand nestled between the Atlantic and Ocean Boulevard. Each time I approach the white-columned mansion, the theme from Gone With the Wind echoes in my mind and for a moment the limos become smart carriages drawn by braces of noble stallions.

  It is said in Palm Beach that it never rains on Lady Cynthia’s pageants, and tonight was no exception. The moon had risen to its height and beamed down on the ladies in their party finery and the gentlemen in their white dinner jackets. The patio was professionally lit with theatrical klieg lights in an array of flattering tones, cloaking the expanse in perpetual twilight. Who says money can’t make time stand still?

  A fountain erupted from the center of the pool, the sparkling water cascading in a rainbow of hues. Dozens of tables for four were covered in white linen and decorated with glass urns bursting with nosegays of yellow tea roses. Portable bars surrounded the area, the caterer’s staff of comely youths passed around the finger food that included the bourgeois pigs in a blanket, and the palm trees swayed to the beat of a foxtrot emanating from a six-piece combo. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness had no idea what they were talking about.

  The hostess was in a shimmering knee-length red cocktail dress that showed off her remarkable figure and distracted the looker from a pedestrian, to put it kindly, face. She greeted me warmly with, “Who invited you, lad?”

  “Not you or your emissary of printed trivia,” I confessed. “I am Dennis Darling’s date.”

  Looking me up and down, she concluded, “If that’s his preference, he could have done better.”

  “Your kindness, Madame, is heartwarming.”

  A pretty young thing offered us a tray of miniature crab cakes pierced with toothpicks. I helped myself as Lady C petitioned me to exert my influence on Denny to give her and her party major coverage in his Palm Beach Story article.

  “Only if they discover a body in your pool at the end of the evening,” I said.

  “Careful, lad, or it may be yours.”

  I had spent most of the weekend with Georgy and Joe Gallo. He went home after dinner on Saturday, but was back bright and early Sunday morning. There was still no word from Vivian Emerson, and the Palm Beach police had no more luck than Georgy in locating her. I talked Gallo into going home Sunday afternoon to man his phone in case the police or Vivian tried to contact him.

  When I got back to my digs, I called Denny to see what he had been up to, which turned out to be nothing very much. He told me Lady C’s party was this evening and asked if I were going.

  “I wasn’t invited.”

  “I was,” he said. “Remember? And I was told to bring a guest. Consider yourself my date.”

  “I have nothing to wear,” I moaned.

  “Coming to sunny Florida, I packed a proper dinner jacket. Get into yours and come by at seven with the top down. We’ll ride through town like two headwaiters with attitude.”

&
nbsp; A week in Palm Beach and he’s talking like a native.

  I picked him up at the hotel and as we drove to Lady Cynthia’s I filled him in on Vivian’s disappearance, giving him a précis on Vivian’s encounter with Holga. I also told him that Lance Talbot was left-handed and expounded on the tunnel theory—taking credit for both. And why not?

  “Someone at the Talbot house called this Vivian Emerson,” he said thoughtfully. “Given the circumstances, I think there’s a connection, but proving it is something else. If I were writing the story I wouldn’t even hint that the call led to Emerson’s disappearance because it would leave me wide open for a slander suit.”

  Down but not out, I said, “The Lance Talbot we know is a righty. Could he be ambidextrous?”

  Denny thought it was possible, but, “People who are ambidextrous usually use their right hand for certain chores and the left for others. If they write with their right, for instance, they may play sports with their left.”

  “If it’s consistent,” I reasoned, “Lance used his left hand for sports as a kid, so he would do so as an adult. But he plays tennis with his right hand.”

  “His feet check out but his hands don’t,” Denny joked. “Unless he was born a lefty and switched later on.”

  “I doubt that’s possible,” I offered. “Wasn’t the last King George, the Queen’s father, a lefty they tried to turn into a righty?”

  “I don’t think it worked,” Denny said.

  Denny was impressed with Lady C’s digs as well as her startling figure. She was so pleased when he kissed her hand, she didn’t notice me until Denny wiggled out of her clutches and made for one of the bars. When she left me to chase after Denny, I took in the scene. Jackson Barnett, the von Brechts and Dennis Darling were the suns around which the party orbited. The doc paraded around like he was leading a brass band, and wore a red carnation in his white lapel. Holga was in a black strapless affair that went to her ankles but was strategically ventilated to show a lovely leg from ankle to thigh. Connie, no doubt out with her beau, was not present.

  Lance was the center of a younger group who had congregated near the pool, where they were passing around a joint. Lance used his right hand to hold his drink and put it into his left to take and pass the offered cannabis. He was as ambidextrous as a one-armed paperhanger.

  Lady Cynthia didn’t allow smoking anyplace on her turf, in or outdoors, but was too crazed running between Jackson, the doc, and Denny to notice the kiddies. Before the night was over she had to get Jackson in bed, von Brecht to invite her to his clinic, and Denny to feature her on the cover of Bare Facts. Whoever coined the expression “idle rich” had never met our Lady Cynthia.

  Did I mention that Barnett looked gorgeous? No? Sorry.

  I got myself a bourbon on the rocks with a splash and met Lance Talbot at the oasis. “Are you here on business or pleasure, Archy?” he asked.

  “A little bit of both. How did you get along with our police?”

  “I told them my story and they told me not to leave town. Having no intentions of leaving before I have settled my claim, I promptly agreed. I think I am now their prime suspect and may have to call on your father sooner than I expected. If they dare harass me without valid cause, I’ll sue them.”

  And wasn’t that a mouthful. The guy was all P & V and hell-bent on election. Was it the funny cigarettes? I hardly think so. I had once called him feisty. I now upgraded Lance Talbot to an aggressive, pugnacious punk. There and then I knew he was as guilty of Jeff’s murder as if he had shoved Jeff into that pool himself. I also knew I couldn’t prove it. And who was he? As Denny had summed up, his right foot said he was Lance Talbot, but his right hand said he wasn’t.

  I moved off before I slugged the guy, lost a client and caused my father to serve me papers.

  Lolly floated by, spotted me and stopped floating. “I don’t remember inviting you,” he warmly greeted me.

  “I’m Dennis Darling’s date.”

  “Well, if your dance card isn’t filled; save the last waltz for me.”

  “You’re on, Lol. Some party you and Madame put together in record time, even for this party town.”

  “Isn’t it thrilling,” he cooed. “The creme de la creme of Palm Beach society. Lady Cynthia has got a firm invitation from Dr. Claus to visit him in Switzerland. I’m going with her, naturally. I can’t wait to get poked in the rear with... well, I won’t spoil your appetite. And Jackson has just about decided to leave Meecham’s yacht and move in here for the duration of his stay. He suffers from mal de mer, don’t you know”

  “Meecham’s boat is docked,” I said.

  “Really? Promise not to tell anyone, dear heart. Ta-ta. And don’t forget our waltz.” With that he floated away.

  “Amusing, isn’t he?”

  Startled, I turned to see Holga von Brecht. “He’s a barrel of monkeys,” I said. “Good evening, Mrs. von Brecht”

  “So formal? The name is Holga.”

  “Or Olga, perhaps?”

  The friendly smile turned into a frown. “I left Olga when I married Claus and made his country my home.”

  Clever, clever, clever. She knew I was wise to something, but not how wise. Rather than deny her true given name and get trapped in a lie, she quickly made up a perfectly natural reason for having altered it to suit her new environment. If Jeff Rodgers was matching wits with this group he was outclassed and outdistanced by a few light-years.

  “I ran into Joe Gallo. He was the man who played opposite us with Vivian Emerson. Do you recall?”

  “I recall that this is the second time you’ve questioned me regarding Vivian Emerson.” The frown turned into a menacing glare.

  “Gallo told me that Vivian remembered you from your college days at Smith, but you didn’t remember her.”

  The glare relaxed into a smile as ingratiating as an icy wind. “That tiresome woman,” she said. “No, I didn’t remember her immediately. She hasn’t aged well, poor thing. I’m afraid I was rude, but I did find her name in the directory and called to apologize.”

  Clever? She was the Einstein of the instant retort. “Did you speak to her?”

  “What is your interest, Mr. McNally?”

  “Vivian Emerson is missing. She left her home Thursday night and has not been seen since.”

  “I know nothing of this. Yes, I spoke to her, briefly. She was still miffed by my rebuff and grudgingly accepted my apology.”

  “You made no date to meet her?” I asked.

  “Meet who?” Dr. von Brecht suddenly joined in the conversation, having gotten away from Lady Cynthia, who was now clinging to Jackson Barnett’s elbow and Denny’s hand.

  “That woman I was telling you about the other day,” Holga brought her husband up to speed. “The one who knew me from Smith. It seems she’s disappeared and Mr. McNally seems to think I might know where she’s hiding.”

  “You are supposed to be working for Lance, Mr. McNally, but I get the distinct impression that it’s us you are investigating, not the death of that waiter. I find it intrusive and ask you to desist.”

  His wife put out her arm to restrain him, as if he had threatened to belt me. “Really, Claus, there’s no need to make a scene. Mr. McNally is merely doing his job, I’m sure. It seems Vivian Emerson is missing.” To me she said, “No, I made no date to meet her, I don’t know where she is and, quite frankly, couldn’t care less.”

  I wondered if she gave Lance lessons in deportment.

  “Lance has been to the police,” Claus put in, “and explained that the waiter was blackmailing him. Lance also told them the reason why. It was most embarrassing for the boy. He is a victim being treated like the culprit. I find it outrageous.”

  What I found outrageous was the way he constantly referred to Jeff as the waiter, as if this somehow made Jeff inferior to the present company. I wanted to nab these poseurs so bad I could taste it.

  Swallowing my pride, I said, “I’m sure the police appreciate Lance’s honesty, and will ke
ep what he told them in the strictest of confidence—unless it has a bearing on Jeff Rodgers’s murder.”

  “Whose side are you on, Mr. McNally?” Dr. von Brecht inquired, as if he were offering me a choice between his patronage or his wrath. He was the most hubristic bastard I have ever had the misfortune to cross paths with.

  “The side of justice, sir.”

  “That is ridiculous, sir. If you would render your statement, I will forward your check. You are no longer in my employ.”

  “I was never in your employ.”

  “Then don’t submit your bill.”

  With a bow, he took his wife’s arm and walked off to join the crowd. Well!

  “I think I’ll throw in the towel and go back to New York.”

  “Take me with you.”

  Denny and I were sitting at the Four Seasons bar, getting sloshed. After being given the gate by Dr. and Frau von Brecht, I saw no reason to hang around and watch the rich folks having fun. When I told Denny I was going, he chose to leave with me. Lady Cynthia had Jackson Barnett sleeping over and an invitation from the miracle worker to check out his Alpine youth factory. She let Denny go without a whimper because two out of three isn’t bad for a lady of her age.

  “They’re guilty as sin, Denny,” I said, not for the first time since we left Lady C’s gala. “And they’re going to get away with it.”

  Denny twirled the ice cubes in his scotch and nodded. “The world is full of guilty people who will never be brought to justice. In my business I see it all the time. For every murderer, or con artist, or embezzler I expose, a hundred get away and a hundred more pop up to fill the gap. Don’t take it personally, chum.”

  But I did take it personally. It wasn’t so much losing, as having it shoved in my face by von Brecht. Three clients and the only one I had satisfied was Nifty, and now I wasn’t even sure of that. Should I tell him that the foot checks out, but the hand doesn’t? It was too ludicrous to even contemplate. The kid in the photograph could be wearing someone else’s glove. Kids do things like that. Or Lance Talbot could be ambidextrous. People are.